I’m starting to feel sick again; that pit-of-the-stomach feeling that always inevitably returns.
I can’t help myself, that’s what happened. I want things I can’t have, things I’m not ready for, things I don’t have the energy or patience for. I don’t have the patience for her.
I would, I would… but I don’t think this will work. I suppose the distance doesn’t help. But sometimes I wonder, what is there even needs fixing? What if I was right? What if she does just make drama out of petty little things that don’t matter? What if letting it go was the only thing we needed to do?
I could be content with that, but she never will. Because ever repeating anything is the greatest offense, repetition means that I clearly don’t care and have no intention of betterment… but why can’t we just enjoy each other? Is that not good enough? Is that not enough?
“You didn’t make me feel special.”
Did I really fail so miserably? If only you could have read my thoughts… you’d know otherwise. Always on my mind.
Counting the days, but wasn’t I always?
There’s something missing, and not enough space to fill it.
Its foolish, it is. It was, because no more. I want to let go forever, I have to. I can’t live like this, with that awful feeling never ceasing in the pit of my stomach. I was happy once; and before that, there was that rush of relief; that should have been enough to tell me what was what. But apparently I’m a fool, that hasn’t changed in the least, and probably never will, but I suppose I’m willing to work with that. And not a whole lot else, but I’m tired of working. Working for things that won’t work. Things that just can’t work. And maybe I ask for too much, but I’m not the one who makes drunken phone calls at 2 am. I was content with letting sleeping dogs lie. I was content to be by myself. Even forever, should it so happen that way.
I remember that young naivety. My hopelessly romantic belief that love could solve everything, that love was some mystical potion to cure all ills, and that in the end would actually serve me. But I was wrong. Maybe I was right in my adolescence; maybe I never should have found any such pathetic hope to hold on to; maybe drowning in the doom of reality would have been better for everyone. She could have moved on, couldn’t she? She would have never known what it was like to have me, to be with me, to make me her own and need me. She wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and so by the same end, neither would I. We could have been better than this, had we only made sure not to let this happen at all.
But I suppose no use in even considering the possibility, being that we ruined that too many years ago anyway; its really only a pathetic attempt at some twisted consolation on my part, but really, what good has consolation ever done anyone? Second place has always been second best, and that’s what it seems we’ll have to settle with.
But I always believed we had it so good. I had deluded myself into believing we were the only ones, we were the first, we knew it better than all the others, we had the answers, we had this figured out. How was I so wrong?
And I need to blame her. Because I spent too many months shaming myself, feeling guilty for all the words and deeds not said, for those that were. And when I stopped, and just took it at face value, just accepted the fact that we didn’t work… suddenly I was free, and I found myself happy. For once. For real. I had it.
And then she came back, and while I know its not her fault, I can’t help but think that things might have gone differently. That I might still be okay if we hadn’t opened this can of worms. That I might actually be moving on instead of kicking up dirt in the same spot for days and weeks on end… and when it becomes months, we know we have a problem on our hands.
Its getting to that point.
This is a problem.
And I don’t want to live my life with a perpetual issue always at hand; I can’t live thinking there is always something that needs fixing, needs to be better. I’ve become inflexible of late, and I suppose I learned it from the best, though I can’t say inheritance has nothing to do with it. But I just… I just can’t. Accept what I am like you always said you did, and maybe we can find a way to make this work.
But you want to pick, pick it apart, as if everything is an issue. I didn’t say there aren’t any; but I really do believe things need to be let go.
But she can’t take that; everything means too much to her. Maybe I’ve lost the capacity. I’m not sure. I’m not sure I care either. I’ve been happier not caring. I’ve been happier letting things slide, and I’d like to get back to that. I’d like to return to being selfish.
I’ve seen it happen.
I’d like to think it could for me.
But she’s not the one to do it. And I suppose if I really cared, I’d want something better for her.
I think I’ve made my point.
I know now why I’m a heart breaker.
I’m a disappointment.
These people only ever fall for me because they see something cute, charming, mildly witty. I do things for them, make them feel good, feel like they matter.
But I only do those things to meet my own ends. And eventually, the truth comes out.
Tears, for god knows what. They will stay with me forever; this trail is permanent.
…hermiting away again.
This isn’t her fault.
The whole world collapsed.
